HD 'Theorem Arc Thrust Equation No 4'
by tigersilver
Summary: If one equation is not completely effective, try another. At least, in theory. Draco applies it, and the experiment can be considered a success.


_HP Theorem Arc: Thrust Equation _

_[F = m * a] _

[1The simple force equation of _thrust_, calculated with _mass _as a constant and variable _acceleration_]

[_2_ A pun, probably originating with Potter, as it's poor]

Draco started slow (quivering muscles still globby from recent exertion required that) and gently (_he _was _not_ taking this for granted, after all) and Harry seemed to appreciate 'gently', as he started talking again.

"How's your mum?"

Draco was really only fully at ease when Harry talked through sex. He answered sometimes, when he felt like it. Or the occasion demanded.

"Mmmm. All right." Draco slathered Harry's chest with his tongue, circling nipples, lapping up scent and salt. "M'aunt's there. Teddy."

"Ah?" Harry hauled in a breath and released curiosity. "Me. You'll see me, too. I'll be there."

His mother had mentioned that. In passing, as if expecting Draco to be irritated. He'd thought he'd done a rather bang up job feigning annoyance.

"…When?"

"In a bit." Harry swallowed hard: Draco wrapping his lips around Harry's nads. "Mmm. I'm his other—"

"Like that, do you? More?"

"—_other_—"

Draco slurped his way down to Harry's crack, found the pucker of his anus and poked his tongue in. Took it out immediately and nibbled away at Harry's previously abused thigh for a moment, teasing.

"This?"

"Guardian!" A pause, as Harry shut his mouth abruptly and shifted his sleek frame down the bed, opening his legs wider, giving Draco as much room as might be required. "I am. Dra…co." Harry sighed the last, or groaned it.

Must applaud Potter: blighter was still able to spit out actual English words. Not in a terribly meaningful order, but all the same…Draco didn't reply, _per se_, but he grunted in general acknowledgement and the sound vibrated just enough to have Harry squirming harder.

"Missed. That." Panting, chuffing away like the Hogwarts Express, here was Harry again, chiming in. "_You_."

"Mmmm." Back to the cock that bobbed against Draco's sharp slash of a Malfoy nose. It smelled so good and he wanted to devour it. He did so and Harry sped up his RPM to 'babble' setting.

"Draco! Draco, Draco, Draco!" he sputtered and gagged in a most complimentary manner. And started nattering again, annoyingly unfazed in the long term. Draco allowed himself a tiny frown.

"You know - I was going to come earlier—"

Draco laughed at that piece of unpardonable punning – an interesting effect was produced, all vibrating teeth and palate – and Harry gulped hard mid-sentence. But he was a determined git, Potter was.

"And then. _And then_. Prof-Professor McGonagall asked me to finish up repairing the greenhouses – you know Nev's going to teach Potions, right? Snape. You know….oh, more! More, more, more – there! Merlin, yesssss….."

Potter had to be sucked halfway down Draco's throat by now; how could he still be yapping?

"Erm…Did you miss me? Draco? You didn't come by—or anything. Fire call."

Lucius's son stuck his tongue hard in Harry's slit so he wouldn't have to answer that using _any _form of communication – verbal or non - and Harry shrieked a bit through his nose and seemed immediately to forget the question.

"O-Owl?"

Or not.

Harry's lover went all out in a serious effort to distract. When Draco had his rhythm reestablished [he, too, was a determined git] – nice and easy, plunging up and down and sucking just enough to coax Harry to roll his hips continually in response – Harry spoke up again, sounding much more relaxed.

"I'm leaving Hogwarts. You know…._mmmm_. _Like that_. Soon. Done here."

Too relaxed. Draco kept his own mouth moving automatically, lips and tongue and hidden teeth a shielding spell against the sudden cold trickle panging just below his spleen and spreading slowly through his intestines, so frigid and tectonically glacial that he stupidly thought perhaps he could halt it in its tracks by grasping the swollen base of Harry's cock and shutting him up completely with rapid rough wanking. Didn't work.

"_Malfoy?!"_ Potter dug his heels into the quilt at the sudden abuse and lifted up, Draco furiously forcing him back down only at just the last second. "_What the fu—!?"_

Bastard!

Fuck it! Nothing Draco did ever worked out the way he planned it! There should've been plenty of time – Merlin's Teeth, they were only a month or so into this farce of an 8th Year. And why in the Seven Circles had he ever thought he loved it when Harry talked? Why had he believed it was comfortable, soothing, reassuring? Why? When all Harry ever spoke of amounted solely to bloody precursors of _change_ and _consequence_ and _moving on_ and _acting now_ and fucking _leaving_?

Truth and Justice. The Pureblood Way. Mudblood Rights. When had he ever cared about those? Draco slid a vicious finger into Harry whilst the other boy was once again attempting to arch his hips up, the nail and bitten cuticle a little dusty still from the passageway and the ladder and totally dry of any lubricant.

What did they matter in the end? he wanted to know, wriggling the digit about in order to find that certain nub of nerve endings within Harry's perfect ass (the one that would summarily remove all possibility of Potter speech for the immediate future, since simple pressure had been ineffective.)

What did it matter anyway, if he was stuck at the Manor with Mum and Teddy and Aunt Andromeda? And trapped at Hogwarts till NEWTS were done. That was months and months away and Potter—

Wasn't waiting about. Not for him.

Another thrusting finger, and both were slick now from his own saliva and Harry's forcefully wrenched-out ejaculate, spurting and slipping down his knuckles and gushing all over Harry's midnight curls. Draco couldn't see the silver lacing over the black; his lids were closed tight against the burn behind them, the deadly prickle he wouldn't be able to hide properly even in the dimness of a soulless hotel room lit by a single lamp. Draco jostled his invading fingers, adding his tongue to work between them, and Harry kept on clenching and gasping, helpless in Malfoy's grasp though the last of his barely resuscitated store of cum must've been wrung from his heaving body within the first few seconds. He orgasmed still, shuddering: dry, as barren as the wasteland the seeping acrid chill had left behind within the wall of Draco's rib cage, and Draco did not dare stop this whole business now – nor did he actually care to reach for his cloak of civility and assume the mask of 'considerate lover'.

He wasn't fucking done yet.

By no means was he finished.

Draco Malfoy ripped his gaping jaw away from Harry's twitching bottom and reared up on his knees, a grim-faced wraith in the evening's gloaming, roughly carrying Harry's legs over his shoulders as he did so. A curse-filled fumble and a piercing jab later and he was finally inside Harry and well on his way to fiercely demonstrating his indomitable hatred of all that defined 'Potter': sick at heart that now he couldn't say all those well-chosen PC words he'd rehearsed so carefully, for Potter had stolen the proverbial flying carpet directly from under his feet again; for Potter had blown out the walls of this wonderful refuge - for Potter had abandoned Draco yet one more time: twisting in the gale and strung out and terrified _again_.

"Ungh!" Potter whinged, all the pre-sex prep in the world no match to Malfoy's savage lunging. The Boy Wonder seemed to sink back into himself, arms splayed every which way, face slack.

And there could be no better thing than this, Draco knew; this heat and grip and ripple of straining flesh below him, those pathetic needy snivels and tiny blowsy half-gasps and the bits-and-pieces of Draco Malfoy's name dribbling out from Potter's lips. And if this was all he'd ever have, all he'd be left with, then this would be the best fuck Potter would ever get. The best fuck ever.

*

One perfect fuck. That's what Potter was. He'd forgotten how good it was, after all these months. Forgotten that Harry was raw silk inside, velvety and giving, and warmer than any cashmere glove Draco had ever the pleasure to don. Somehow managed (whilst buried in official paperwork) to not quite recall that Harry's ass cheeks were firm and smooth when spread under his damp palms; that his nest of curls was inky dark and tangled and damply fragrant, the perfect place to entwine the fingers of one grasping hand should one be intent on keeping a short leash on one Potter, Harry. Somehow let slip away (during the time in Azkaban and the time wasted at the Ministry) to the dim recesses of hallow'd memory the perfect rose of Harry's gathered nipples, coaxed to an even darker shade under the ministrations of Draco's lips; the way his throat always tasted when he was pliant like this, corded with strain and salt-slick and eminently vulnerable to Draco's nuzzling mouth. (Lost to the dull pain of Father's funeral) the heady scent that wafted up whenever they were joined just this way – hip to hip, sex imbedded – clouding in his ruffled no-longer-perfect-hair and filling Draco's patrician nostrils with sharp and sweet and moss and cinnamon, all underlaid with the base aroma of rutting male musk.

_Lyingtomyself! Lyingtomyself! Lyingtomyself!_ Draco's semi-conscious mind scolded, as he forged farther in.

He could identify Harry by scent alone, now. By the touch of one wayward lock or the brush of one off-broom awkward shuffling stumble; by the size of his hands and taste of his saliva and sound of his breathing, asleep or awake, even if Draco were to be hexed dumb and blind and mute all at once, with absolutely no warning. And he had never, ever forgotten one single moment of any one of their memorable encounters, from first forced kiss to last semi-silent wrangle, and Dumbledore would damn him to die a castrated Pie-Eyed Skrewt if he didn't find a way to hang on to one Harry Potter, the one perfect fuck of his entire fucked-up life. With a cold clarity birthed by the best shagging ever – and Draco knew the next one would be just as good – he screamed a great internal "Sod off!" to NEWTS and the Manor and obligations and anything other than this moment, this man.

_Mine_.

Of course, Draco wasn't required to be so gauche as to _clue Potter in_ or anything of the sort. Confessions were for girls and innocent virgins. Rings were for lackluster nits and spineless wannabes. Bonds required no trappings or traditions or stupid words of forsaking all others or 'love eternal'. Draco only had to make sure he managed to stick by Potter – and keep Potter stuck on him – and that was dead-easy, when they were each other's Fated Foe. They'd always been that, right? They were still 'that' – and now it was but child's play with Voldemort handily destroyed. Not one thing to hamper the path now; not one compelling reason to prevent them from continuing on the road they were always meant to tread. What was that old Muggle saw: 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer'? Draco could do that. He could.

_Mine_. _You're mine_. Smiling snidely, he told this to Potter, who was finally rousing somewhat from his motion-induced daze, responding at last, though weakly, to the weight and girth that filled him, pushed him, hemmed him in. Harry's hands fluttered up (perhaps in protest, perhaps in need), grasping fitfully at Draco's shoulders – slipping on sweat and then digging in, short, rough nails biting half-moons, as they always did. His mouth gaped open, begging to be filled or perhaps to tell Draco to 'slow down' or something equally foolish, and Draco mindlessly obliged his Harry, angled sharply, eager, claiming - as he always did.

_No other shall have you while I live and breathe, you git. _

Potter was bent nearly in half now, feet waving wildly in the air somewhere above Draco's ears, gasping for oxygen between battering blows, and crying out with the nothing he had left over.

'Oh! Mi…ne! Give it here, Malfoy! _Give me mine!"_

One. Perfect. Fuck. One, perfect—

Draco didn't even have to drag either sticky hand to Harry's cock to push him that final little distance – good thing, that, as his hands were entangled and clamped on hair and ass – didn't even need turn away from what he was currently doing (curling his own spine back in readiness for a Neanderthal roar, the tendrils of his humid hair hanging a quarter the way down his Harry-scratched back) to pay scant attentions to his needy lover. He wasn't impelled to scream 'Mine!' or 'Yours!" or commit any social solecism, such as the blathering such inutterables as 'Baby!' or 'Darling!' And he had no fine compunction restraining him from 'letting go' or 'taking it easy'. He merely did exactly what Harry Potter wanted him to do: fucked him madly, filled him to the brim and overflowing, and collapsed after, boneless and barely respiring, crushing Potter's yielding limbs under his own like a certain reassuring ballast, anchoring them both firmly to the bounds of earth.

*

Potter stayed to finish 8th Year. He took extra NEWTS and fidgeted. Malfoy bitched and chivvied at him, both in public and private, so he stayed. Teddy grew to love his uncles. Aunt Andromeda moved into the Manor. Draco moved out, though not in with Potter. That came later, after much argument and posturing. In Gibraltar, actually, because Potter had the nicer flat.

Neither ended up as an Auror. Neither went off to Hogwarts to teach (not yet). They both tried infidelity and found it sorely lacking and made up fairly instantly after, without too much trouble. Draco discovered that, with the wise application of alcohol and humor, he could tolerate the Weasleys on the whole. Harry fell instantly in love with Narcissa, which sent the wind up Draco as soon as he realized. Grainger was discovered to be more than merely tolerable – a real friend; Draco's second - but that process took a great many years longer, though she was much easier than the Weasel to converse with at first.

Blaise married Pansy. Pansy survived. Ginny married some random professional Quidditch player from the Cannons and promptly got divorced. Ron and Hermione steadfastly dated till well after she gave birth to the second child in Year 3. Molly put her foot down then. Draco found an oddly familiar platinum ring on his ring finger in Year 5 and immediately fled to the bathroom to sob his grinchy little heart out, Harry following right after and appropriately freaking out with apologies and worry.

No one else died or inexplicably turned Death Eater or stalked them, except Rita Skeeter and that was to be expected – the stalking, of course. And Snape in due course retired. And Draco and Harry – in due course – came to place they could call 'home'. And both were well aware they'd been there all along.

END ARC


End file.
